


Static on the Line

by Remki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remki/pseuds/Remki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prompt was "Lestrade, knowing Mycroft bugs all of Sherlock's aquaintences homes, calls his own phone to vent about the consulting detective". This is what evolved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Static on the Line

Somewhere in London, a flat stood empty of its occupant. The furnishings were sparse and old -built for comfort rather than fashion- and the walls were stretched expanses of white, unbroken by a single poster or pinned up photo. Somehow the air felt incomplete, like pieces of the space were missing in their entirety. There were signs that someone had lived there before, and had filled these spaces with their own being, but they had gone by then, and the spaces left empty and unfilled. On a table in the hall, lit only by a single yellow bulb that left a dirty light to linger on the smoke-stained paint and scuffed wood, the phone stood alone. The sound of it ringing filled the apartment with a high shrill note once…twice…three times.

The answering machine picked up.

 _“Yeah, it’s me. You know what to do._ BEEP.

The machine was met with silence. A muffled curse word at the other end of the line cut the message off abruptly, and then the house was empty of all sound once more.

\-----------------------  
 _Yeah, it’s me. You know what to do._

The silence started the message again, but it was shorter this time. After ten seconds, a rough voice broke and cleared its throat on the other end, and spoke.

“This is stupid,” it said, and hung up.

\-----------------

 _….You know what to do._

“Sherlock says you can---that you bug all our homes. I can’t say I see the _point_ in it, really, but I’ve never seen him really wrong on these sort of things, so I think he’s probably telling the truth. A bit, anyway. As much as he ever tells the truth. You would know, wouldn’t you? Better than any of us, except maybe that doctor. And…God help me, I know this is insane, but I have to tell _someone_ , and it’s a bit redundant to complain about Sherlock at the department because it’s all been heard before.”

The voice paused.

“But what I don’t tell them, is just how damned _brilliant_ the man is. How could I? Either they look up to him, which I highly discourage, or they hate him, which I can sympathize with. But ultimately I don’t think they really understand just _what he is_. The most brilliant mind the yard has ever seen, that’s what he is. God, probably the world has ever seen. Except for you, maybe. From what Doctor Watson hints at. And he does things with it, yes, Sherlock, I mean. But he could do so much more, he could be helping so many people! And what does he say? ‘Boring.’ ‘Dull.’ God, if I had half the mind he had, I would…”

Another pause. A sigh.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter what I’d do, does it? Because I don’t have even half his mind. I’m left stumbling along behind him, looking like an idiot, and just _hoping_ we can learn just a little how he does these things, because we need to know. We are going to have to know, because we can’t always depend on Sherlock to be there when we need him. It’s just so… _frustrating_ …”

Somewhere on the other line, Lestrade held his breath for a moment, and then let it out forcefully. He stared at the mobile in his hand, realizing that if anyone knew he had called his own home to rant about Sherlock to an empty flat, they would think he’d gone around the bend. And yet, somehow, he felt better. Though he didn’t really believe that anyone was actually listening, it had helped.

“Well… Thanks. I think.”

He ended the call.

\---------------------

Lestrade had met Mycroft a few times in his early dealings with Sherlock. At first they had been nothing but glimpses of black cars and a tall man with an umbrella, pulling up beside the consulting detective on the curb outside some crime scene, or parked in a car park nearby. It was obvious, even to Lestrade’s observations, that Sherlock disliked the man. It was less obvious, after the doctor had arrived on the scene, just what John felt about these encounters, but the doctor seemed to hover somewhere between amusement and irritation. But Lestrade had never had any personal dealings with the man with the umbrella until the Detective Inspector received a text from Sherlock, on the night of the last bomber incident, from the hospital. Something had happened, something very bad, and yet it had been taken care of and cleaned up by another force entirely separate from the police. The only reason Lestrade was involved at all was because John had asked for him. Lestrade had been met at the hospital entrance not by John, but by Mycroft.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said with a small twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Very interesting to see you here.” He leaned on his umbrella casually, but in such a way that Lestrade would have to force his way past to go any further. Lestrade stopped, and nodded at the man.

“Doctor Watson asked to see me,” he said, answering the unasked question.

Mycroft inspected his nails briefly.

“Yes, I was aware of that.”

He looked back up at Lestrade.

“You will excuse me, Detective Inspector Lestrade, if I seem rude, but I must make it clear that this is not a police matter. Whatever you might say to Doctor Watson, I must ask that you refrain from any line of investigation into the incident. I will assure you,” Mycroft added with a smile that held more behind it than his words, “it is being taken care of.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said. “I… well then. I believe I was asked here as a friend…of sorts. But I _have_ to ask; Who are you?”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, dear,” he said with exaggerated sadness. “I thought I had introduced myself.”

He extended one long, thin hand. “I’m Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother.”

Lestrade, a little dumbfounded at the thought of two Holmes -- _two Holmes, God help us!_ \-- met the hand with his own larger, meatier one and shook it. Mycroft, genuinely amused at Lestrade’s reaction, laughed a little, his grip much stronger than Lestrade had expected.

“And you work for?” he asked. Mycroft simply smiled, and pulled his hand from Lestrade’s.

“That would be telling.”

\---------------

 _…You know what to do._

“You would think, just once, he could be a damn human. Your brother, I mean. Obviously your brother, who else can be so damn _clinical_ about everything? I mean, I’m not new to this, you know, but even I still manage to stir up some sympathy and feeling from somewhere. At least in front of the victim’s family. They were DEVASTATED. And there he was, going on and on about the man’s history of drug abuse, violence, and depression, and his family were just standing there like it’s the end of the world. I’m telling you, if that doctor hadn’t pulled him away I would have dragged him from the spot myself. It’s one thing to tell the truth, but to just dump it on them right then and there, all at once, and so soon after he had been murdered? It’s heartless. It’s bloody heartless!”

Lestrade sighed into the phone. Somewhere in the background, the sound of sirens and the low murmur of a quiet office filtered through, the white noise of everyday life. A crinkle of food wrappers and the sound of Lestrade swallowing something came next. Lunchtime, relatively.

“And of course I had to deal with the fallout. Not Sherlock. Never Sherlock. Couldn’t send Sally to do it either, because this time it was a _major_ fuck up, and I had to deal with it personally. What’s more, they called the station later to complain. I came back to a note telling me I’ve got to see my superior in 20 minutes, and you know exactly what it’s going to be for. Or maybe you don’t. If you’re anything like what I think you are, and a Holmes brother to boot, then you probably don’t have any superiors. Not any that doesn’t wear a crown, that is.”

Another pause. Lestrade swallowed the last of his lunch. He realized, as the last of the cold turkey sandwich went down, that he felt alright. The irritation that had itched at him since they had left the crime scene that morning had gone. He raised an eyebrow at the phone.

“Ok. Right then. Thanks.”

\----------------------------

“Get in the car, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

The smooth, faceless black car had pulled up alongside Lestrade as he walked towards the police department. It had only been a month since the time Lestrade had first met Mycroft in person, so he knew immediately who it was that was picking him up so unceremoniously outside his work. What he didn’t know was why. He looked around the sidewalk with a slight desperate stare, as if he would find Sherlock –so often the cause of these sorts of problems- laughing at him from a distance. There was no Sherlock. Mycroft, however, was really there, and tapping his umbrella handles in a light but decidedly impatient fashion. With a resigned shrug, Lestrade crawled into the car and shut the door behind him.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade greeted the man courteously. He adjusted his jacket, straightening out the buttons and glancing around the car as it pulled away from the building and into traffic. “What can I do for you? I’m assuming you’re not here to offer me a ride to work.”  
Mycroft gave him one of his thin smiles. “No, DI Lestrade. And please,” he added. “Call me Mycroft.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows in slight surprise, but didn’t say anything. Mycroft, in his turn, pulled out a yellow filing folder from a briefcase next to him and handed it to Lestrade.

“Here,” he said.

Lestrade took the folder hesitantly. On the cover, stamped in red, was the word “confidential” in large letters. With an encouraging look from the spook beside him, Lestrade opened the folder to the first page. It was a profile, with a photo of a young man. The man had light, slicked back hair, thin lips, and small blue eyes set in a pox-marked face that seemed to have a permanent scowl imprinted on it.

“Hey,” Lestrade said in surprise. “I recognize this man! He’s a new Inspector, just transferred over from Manchester. What’s his name, Hunt something?”

“Gene Hunt, in fact. And he’s more than just a new transfer; he’s a plant.”

“A plant?”

“Yes, from my department.” Mycroft seemed about to say more, but thought better of it at the last minute. Lestrade stared first at the man beside him, then down at the photo of the new Inspector.

“You mean he’s a spook? Posing as an Inspector?”

“Oh, he’s more than qualified to be an Inspector, rest assured.”

“I’ll bet he is,” Lestrade answered, still very confused. “But why is he in my department? And why are you even telling me this?”

Mycroft looked at the Detective Inspector from half-lidded eyes.

“Because,” he said. “I need you. This man has specific duties to perform while in your employ, and I’d like to see that he gets put on the right cases to do so.”

“Cases? Like what kind?”

Mycroft tapped a thin finger on the yellow file in Lestrade’s lap. “It’s all in there, Detective Inspector. I will have to ask you to leave the file, but you can look at it as long as you need to. Also,” Mycroft added, and then paused. He gave a look to the Detective Inspector that sent chills down the man’s spine for the force that it held behind it. “As a personal interest, I’d be grateful if you found it fitting to see him assigned to any cases involving my younger brother.”

“You want me to make sure he spies on Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, a little incredulous. Mycroft’s features assumed a sudden look of pained indignation.

“Spy? Oh no, my good fellow, I don’t _spy_ on my brother. I merely keep watch over him, as all good family is wont to do. Do you need more time to go over the list?”

The car had circled the rather large London block nearly 4 times by then, and had just come up to the spot where they had first picked up Lestrade. The Detective Inspector read through the list of case types that Hunt was to be included in once more, and then shook his head.

“No, I’ve got it.”

Mycroft smiled, and reached across the Detective Inspector to pop open his door for him. The sudden contact of Mycroft’s arm across his chest was unexpected, and Lestrade stared at the man for a moment, both impressed at the way he handled himself and just slightly intimidated by the many depths and folds –more than most of them quite dangerous- he knew the Holmes brother was hiding within him.

“Goodbye, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said courteously. “Have a nice day.”

Lestrade watched the black car pull off and disappear into the traffic, and shook his head.

“Spooks…”

\-----------

“It’s just this job, you see. I’d never give it up, but some days…” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Even though it was night, and he should have just gone home and to bed hours before, Lestrade was still in his office. The lights had been dimmed around him, and somewhere in the distance of the building came the sounds of the janitor hoovering. Paperwork was strewn across his desk, and it didn’t take a Holmes to see the red in his eyes and the tired lines around his lips that spoke of a long, hard day.

“I really try to put everything I can into it. Maybe I put too much in. But it never feels like enough. I don’t know…”

He was too tired to finish, and too disillusioned and depressed to believe that anyone was listening. He hung up without saying goodbye.

\-------------

After the second visit, Lestrade hadn’t been expecting to see or hear much –if anything- from Mycroft for a very long time. He thought that someone of Mycroft Holmes’ position would be much too busy to do all his visits himself, and that there couldn’t really be anything else to bring him around, as it was. Though he was never quite clear exactly what he was, or where he came from, Lestrade had the instinct to know someone High Up when he saw them, and the High Ups were almost always too busy to bother with the small fries.

Of course, as if the universe had a need to prove a point, he was wrong. Whatever Mycroft Holmes career might be, he seemed to have the same insatiable urge as his brother to stick his nose in Lestrade’s activities whenever it was most inconvenient.

Like on his first day off in weeks.

He spotted the car before it was next to him this time, and groaned.

“Oh, no, not again,” he muttered under his breath as the car pulled up. The door opened from the inside, and a young woman stepped out, her eyes glued to her blackberry. Lestrade saw that the car was empty, and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m to take you to see Mr. Holmes,” she said, without bothering to look at him. She motioned a little impatiently with a hand, and Lestrade crawled in resignedly. He waited until the girl had joined him and the car pulled away before he bothered to ask any questions.

“Alright, so where are we going?” he asked.

The girl smiled. “You’ll see.”

She didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride, and Lestrade fell into an uneasy silence. He watched as the car lead them down streets and alleys and across the bridge, until they had gone so far that Lestrade only had a vague notion of where they were. Finally, when he had convinced himself that they were taking him from London, the car stopped on a small street lined with identical houses. It was one of those neighborhoods built for young couples, brand new and shiny and –in Lestrade’s opinion- ugly as hell. Each house was only differentiated from its neighbor by its number and a slight difference in the front garden. It was, in the words of a certain consulting detective, _boring_.

Beside him, the girl with the blackberry motioned towards the house they had parked in front of.

“Well, go on. In you go,” she said, darting a quick amused glance at the man before returning her gaze to her mobile. Lestrade looked at her, then back at the house, and took a deep breath. Fine, he thought. In I go.

The house wasn’t any different than the ones around it. Lestrade at first thought he had been taken to Mycroft’s home, but as inconspicuous as he might be able to make himself, Lestrade had the distinct impression that even Mycroft wouldn’t be able to stand living in one of these identical boxes. He was proved right when a large man in black opened the door before he could knock, and ushered him in to an empty house. Guiding him through the empty entrance hall, the man in black led Lestrade up the carpeted stairway, and motioned to a door on their right without saying anything.  
Lestrade pushed the door open without knocking. Inside was another empty room, save for two chairs set to face each other. In one sat Mycroft, his legs folded and a small file in hand. The other was obviously intended for Lestrade. The Detective Inspector walked in through the door, and Mycroft looked up expectantly, as if he had only just noticed the DI.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade! Please, do sit down,” he motioned to the chair in front of him. Lestrade took the seat, and then glanced around.

“An empty house in a random London neighborhood,” he said, unable to resist poking fun of it all. “Not quite as intimidating as, say, a warehouse. Still…”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft began, “Some things just simply can’t be discussed in ones offices. Surely you can understand?”

He smiled at Lestrade, and the DI shrugged. He knew a little what the Holmes brother meant, but he knew that his own experiences were nowhere quite like Mycroft’s.

“I suppose this has something to do with Sherlock,” he said at last. Mycroft shot him a quick look, and seemed slightly surprised.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’ve been meaning to discus something with you for a while now. While I do have many means of gathering data on my brother, there’s never anything quite like the human element, is there? I find intuition and experience is sometimes far better educators than a mere recording or photograph.”

Lestrade stayed silent as Mycroft paused, not quite sure where the other man was going.

“What I mean is, sometimes it is beneficial to have more than just machines at your disposal. Sometimes it’s good to have a person, someone close and whom you can rely on, to take care in these matters.”

“I…don’t think I quite understand. Are you asking me to relay information to you?”

Mycroft let a small smile tug at the edge of his lips for a moment. “Oh you do catch on, rather more than you give yourself credit. Yes, I’m asking for information, the kind that only human interaction can supply.”

“About Sherlock.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said placidly. “Nothing you would feel uncomfortable telling me, simple estimations of his mental state, what you can observe about his daily life and his interactions, that sort of thing.”

“Can’t you, I don’t know, have his place bugged or something?”

“I have,” Mycroft gave the answer with a deadpan stare. “And he keeps debugging it. But that’s beside the point. I am willing to offer compensation for your task.”

“You’re bribing me?”

“Not at all, Detective Inspector. Merely paying you for your services.”

Lestrade stare at the man across from him. While he knew that Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother, and –hopefully- had the best at heart, it somehow seemed almost…disloyal.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“You must understand, Detective Inspector, that I have only my brothers’ best interests at heart. You know what kind of man he is, what an _asset_ he can be, and yet how fond of trouble he is. How fond of getting himself, and others, nearly killed. I don’t want to invade in his life, simply make sure that he retains it.”

Lestrade studied Mycroft’s expression as he spoke. Though he was nearly as inscrutable as his brother (or more so, if Lestrade suspected right) somehow his words held the weight of honesty in them, and true worry. Lestrade sighed, and sat back in the chair.

“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll do it. But!” He held up a finger as Mycroft began to speak, to cut him off. “I don’t want any money. This is simply for Sherlock’s sake.”

Mycroft looked genuinely pleased at this.

“Of course,” he said, and then after a pause, added, “And thank you, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

\--------------------------

The day had been long and hard, and the night had been harder still. Three murders, a case of robbery, and some internal fuck up on payroll had left Lestrade feeling frustrated, hopeless, and very, very hungry.

 _\--ow what to do._

“All I want is a good cup of tea, and some food. Is that _really_ so hard to ask from life?

He hung up.

\----------

When he finally, _finally_ got home, it was nearly four in the morning. The apartment was dark and empty and cold. With a heavy heart Lestrade walked through the darkness into his own kitchen and turned on the light.

There, under the blinding fluorescents, stood a single cup of tea –still steaming slightly- and a bag of Chinese delivery. His favorite, going by the aroma. A small note was propped against the tea cup, and Lestrade stared at it in wonder for a moment before finally picking it up.

 _Not TOO hard, no.  
Enjoy.  
MH_

It was creepy, and amazing, and slightly frightening, and wonderful, and just a little more creepy still. But his stomach was growling, and he could almost taste the food in his mouth, and at that moment Lestrade thought he could kiss the spook out of sheer gratitude. He settled for his tea and Chinese instead.

\------------

What he would never understand later was why he kept calling after he had realized that someone was actually, truly listening. Maybe, he thought, it was BECAUSE they were listening. Someone to talk to who didn’t speak back, didn’t leave judgments or make pitying faces at him when he let vent all the frustrations, sorrows and disappointments of the job. To know that someone was listening, quietly, and occasionally leaving him food and tea after long days on short sleep. It was creepy, completely and utterly creepy, he knew. And somehow, so very comforting.

\--------------

Mycroft sat in his office, his eyes quickly scanning the document placed before him before signing it off, and placing it in a box labeled ‘out’ on the side of his desk. He replaced it with yet another document, and then another document. Beside him, on the table, his phone sat. As he was about to pick up a fourth, it went off. He pressed the touch screen lightly with a long finger to open the call and sat back silently, listening. It was the direct line from his phone to the bug in Lestrade’s home, and it had been programmed to notify him of any incoming calls and to intercept the signal, to let him listen in live.

It hadn’t been like that always; at first one of the interns had been assigned to listening in on Lestrade’s home and office. It had been the intern who thought Mycroft might be interested in the messages on Lestrade’s home phone concerning Sherlock. Mycroft had listened, and found it an interesting analysis and specimen of Sherlock’s social interactions and their consequences on other, more normal humans. He began demanding the report from Lestrade’s home phone every day, to see if anything new and of use cropped up. Occasionally something did, though Lestrade would never know what valuable information he gave as freely as water.

But more than that, Mycroft had begun to take an interest in the man himself. He lived a mundane life, it was true. But Mycroft had always been fascinated by the drama of the mundane, and the more he listened, the more he started to sympathize with the man. He could understand the places Lestrade came from, even if they were levels below in their parallel to Mycroft. But then, so was nearly everybodys, even Sherlock’s. After four months of listening in, the daily plight of Detective Inspector Lestrade had become almost a daily ritual. When he had heard the short, brief, desperate message for tea and food, his heart had been moved by the man’s dedication to his job, despite its obvious drawbacks, and Mycroft –in a moment of caring- had seen too it that the man be properly fed. He had thought showing his hand like that would be the end of it, but if Lestrade found their arrangement somehow strange, it didn’t stop him from calling. Eventually he had arranged for the answering machine calls to be sent straight to his phone, so that he could hear them as they came and respond appropriately.

 _“Yeah, it’s me. You know what to do._

 

The call that night started off in silence. Mycroft wondered if it was perhaps a ‘crank’ call, as those were received fairly frequently, when a choking sound on the other end of the line quickly convinced him otherwise. The strained voice of Lestrade followed.

“It was a kid…”

A sudden surge of dread came over Mycroft.

“God, she was just a kid. And he…We got him, but we were just too late, and she just… You…you get used to all kinds of things in this job but never-” His voice hitched for a moment, and the man took a deep breath to steady it. “Never that. Not that.”

There was a long silence then. Mycroft felt a hard lump come into his throat, and he swallowed it down, hard. The silence seemed to fill the office, fill the entirety of London. The voice that broke it was much smaller than Mycroft had ever heard it.

“She went so quickly.”

And then he was gone, leaving Mycroft alone with the weight of his words, and the silence.

\--------------

When Lestrade arrived home that night, the house was dark and empty. He stood in the hall darkness in silence, his body feeling heavier than lead, and his mind frozen in a deep, painful cold. Somewhere in his heart he felt something hardening, but it was too slow, too slow to stop the image of her deathly pale face, or the feel of hot blood on his hands. When the blood had left him, so had all the warmth in his body, and now he felt chilled and frozen to his core.

The terrible thing was, he knew deep inside that this would pass. Another layer of callous and indifference would form then, to cover the wound, and he would be left just that much _less_. Protected, but less. The empty house felt like a hollow shell waiting to be filled with the cold indifference of experience. He sighed, and it echoed through the hall and down the house like a whisper.

Throwing his keys on the hall table next to the phone, Lestrade made his way through the darkness towards the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry, but over time it had become a habit to check the kitchen when he returned, for signs from his well wisher. He flicked on the overhead light quickly.

It was empty.

The sting of disappointment became lost and mingled with all the other feelings inside, and he switched off the light.

He was aching to go to bed by then. But the thought of climbing the stairs felt like too much effort. He was certain he wouldn’t make it halfway up the step before his limbs froze and refused to take him any further. The couch, on the other hand, would be fine. Lestrade angled away from the stairs and towards the living room. He had to fumble in the dark to find the lamp and switch it on, but finally, after stubbing a toe, he found it.

“Good Evening, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade, completely unready for this sudden apparition in his living room, took a step back and nearly fell over the sofa. His heart beat a wild drum in his ears and he wondered, briefly, if he would be the kind of man to die from a heart attack after a simple surprise.

“Mr. Holmes,” he said when he had regained his balance and his heartbeat. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought,” the man said slowly, inspecting his nails, “that you might be in need of some company. I hear you’ve had a rather…rough night.” He looked up at the DI, and Lestrade saw that Mycroft seemed to be genuinely sad. The expression was much more subtle, and much more real, than the fake act he wore in daily conversation. Unsure how to respond, Lestrade sat down in silence, and just stared at the man across from him, who had so randomly appeared in his living room.

“And please,” the man said, when it became obvious that Lestrade wasn’t going to say anything. “As I’ve said, call me Mycroft.”

Lestrade snorted at that, and stared at Mycroft, disbelief and vague amusement fighting with the grief in his eyes. It was painful to see, and for Lestrade almost more painful for it to be seen. The DI shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he opened them, though, the grief had been -mostly- replaced with a look of gratitude.

“Mycroft, then,” he stated. “I think, Mycroft, that I need a scotch. You?”

Mycroft smiled. “Of course,” he answered. Lestrade nodded solemnly, and stood to move towards the liquor cabinet. He stopped next to Mycroft’s chair as he was passing it, however, and after a moment’s hesitation, dropped a hand on to the man’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said quietly.

Mycroft looked up at the Detective Inspector, and then reached up and squeezed the hand on his shoulder reassuringly.

“Any time.”

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not continue with this storyline. Not sure yet, but either way I found a sudden and unexpected pairing!love in Mycroft/Lestrade.


End file.
